cab whose fingers are only used to turn over music: carry parasols: take care of steam-boat or railway tickets-who, because he " never cares about himself" as the phrase goes, is pounced on as a refuge: a scape-goat: a bare-need: by everybody. Not that he is unselfish in the right sense of the word— he is not good-tempered even-he is merely easy. If a beggar asks charity, he relieves-not the man's poverty -but himself from the man's importunity. He has no antipathies; not even in his dietary: he does not care which lady he escorts to the dining room. "Where will he sit?" "Anywhere!" "What does he prefer?" "Anything!" He does not know what bad Port is—and is fond of Bucellas. He has no amusements-but that is a mistake-he plays at Draughts, and is-of course-an angler, thinking dace eatable and rather inclining to haddock. He has no predilections-thinks seriously perhaps of the command that "you must not marry your grandmother"-is, else-not particular. If he goes into the country, cannot understand what " the scenery" means: knows nothing of "effects:" thinks it hot, perhaps or cold-or more probably neither one thing nor the other. Is a great reader of newspapers and pamphlets, and is generally well read up in the history of some back-settlement people somewhere. His dress will bespeak his character. A shapeless hat-worn off the forehead: lank hair-and light, straw-colored-in fact: a dress coat with impossible pockets: vest, rainbow hued: continuations "a la police :" Bluchers: Berlin gloves. He never carries a stick-because he would have to flourish it or move it too much—but an umberella-gingham and grass green. By the advice of his friends, he has mounted glasses; but they do not improve him, although they are green too; indeed he looks rather like a railway engine in them. As for his face-perhaps silence would be more significant than words. Utterly expressionless, of course. Some people -young ladies in their nonage-have said he was good looking. There was no bad point in his face it is true-the eyes were weak, and the lids a little red, but then the nose what there was of it was straight enough, and his lips very pretty and small. But we have a prejudice in favor of whiskers. A man's face without them is like a landscape without trees: a cherub without wings or a house, or an army similarly bare. Ephraim Polyblank was innocent of the facial finish this seal of our supremacy as Lords of the Creation. Over the collar of his "Corazza" not a solitary hair arose. In barren outline the Now NO. XI. GG VOL I. keen maxillary faded away into the thin hair, only broken by the capacious ears that hung on either side like the pendant handles of a coffin. Forehead-craniologically-he had nonethere was a pale narrow region from which the straight, meagre eye-brows diverged; but there was nothing it would not have been ridiculous to call "the seat of thought." Powers of some kind he must have had. He might have made in another class—a mute-or a policeman-or even a Poor-Law Commissioner. But whatever there was in him never came The only thing in his favor was his quietude of manner. Grandly, we should say-repose. Sleepiness will do. He was a model listener a famous foil-a most safe confidant. Poly But no, No news He was how little the pronouncing this word asserts its meaning-imperturbable. Nothing surprised him. He is a better on the Derby-the town rings with the result. blank, my boy! you have won-Cossack has won." that is a mistake too. He has betted on both sides. will discompose him. He hears that the Minister has, in rough imitation of Cincinnatus, retired into an Union Workhouse." "Ah!" or "that the French have made a Law against Bonfires and Bonbons." "Oh!" or, "that the Pope has run off with Lola Montes". "Bless me," or that the Thames is on fire." "Indeed!" It is all the same to him. His friend, Twickenham Fizz, who is an animated interjection, runs off with the girl he is engaged to. He sighs once or twice-tells his jeweller to "never mind about that locket" and there is an end to that. Or his uncle dies and leaves his money to the Magdalen. He grumbles a little and discontinues" pachouli." And yet he is no philosopher-taking Creosote for the Toothache and believing in Mr. Eisenberg. He has no Studies-the very word is enough to frighten him. If he has a hobby, it is Mesmerism. But then there is some reason for this as he makes such a capital patient, and from sheer sluggishness gives in to all the operator announces. Had he been born a few points lower in the social scale, this science would have been a fortune to him, he goes to sleep so very easily. We hear that he has learned and let us give him a word of praise for it-for it is no light task-the names of all the Phrenological organs-and is at this moment educating his "Wonder." We recollect his once taking the Laughing Gas, when he immediately quoted the Seventh Book of the Paradise Lost, which is no laughing matter, you will say. When a boy, he was just the same drowsy, unimpressible, motiveless animal-spending his money in tops and eschewing kites and fireworks. He was the carrier-pigeon of the schoola little slower perhaps and not safe with "hard baked." There was no "nobody" at that Academy. All the broken glass, inked copy-books, and canes-split up with horse-hair, went to the credit-and bill, too, of Master Ephraim Polyblank. Expelled as incorrigible, he was sent to College, where he improved his caligraphy by endorsing acceptances, and very nearly married his Laundress. He is now reading for the Law, and has Chambers in the dry region of "Pump Court." He is very punctual-going through the regular number of hours with blank fortitude. He will not allow the slightest infraction upon this law of attendance at the Temple. You never see those impudent tickets wafered over his door of "back in an hour"-" on a case at the Guildhall" "gone to the House of Lords, &c." His clerk has a perfect sinecure-employing himself all the day long in writing "thrilling" pieces for the Minor Theatres, using his master's name-who thus, all unconscious, is committed to posterity as the author of half a hundred "Domestic Dramas." The barrister himself is considered "profound," because nobody has ever heard him give a decided opinion. He has no preju dices-scarcely habits-his punctuality being as causeless as such a thing can be. His creed-political-moral-and intellectual -not religious-for he goes to Church once a week, which makes him a respectable Christian - he has borrowed from all sorts of people, and wears his jumble of beliefs and disbeliefs as incongruously as his dress. He is a great quoter, and will recite "the Task," or Pope's " Essay on Man" from beginning to end. He carries a Dictionary in one pocket, and some Student's Guide in the other. If he likes anything it is system--but he is always changing it. Last Summer he got up at five and bathed in the Serpentine. This year he will read "Young's Night Thoughts" in bed, smoking a Meerschaum before breakfast. He is a little fond of music, talking some fudge about "Bäch's Fugues"he always selects, if asked, Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words"-because then, nobody can ask him to sing--but he has not the remotest idea of their glorious sentiment. He has a sister—who grows water-cresses in her bed-room ין and knows short-hand. She always goes out with a dropsical greyhound for a walk, the pair being connected by blue ribbon. She carries a Concertina where she spends her evenings, and does some of the Irish melodies-but very dismally. She has mouse-colored hair, which is never in curl and hangs about her face like damp cypress round a gravestone. She was old at sixteen and knitted stockings. Indeed we sometimes doubt if she ever passed the "sampler" epoch. In Domestic Life, Ephraim Polyblank is unobjectionablecalls his maternal ancestor his "ma," does not believe in the existence of "Clubs," will always carry anybodys clogs, does not think "Shopping"-a bore: will always ride outside everything-even a yacht if requested to do so. He will in all probability never marry, although the good old lady has had his wardrobe ready for years. He did try on one occasion to reach the critical point the ordeal of the "question," seduced_thereunto by the poor lady's being quietly suffering under the Influenza, but just as he was drawing off his right hand glove, that he might not seize — but approach her slightly extended fingers-she unfortunately sneezed and so-now he will remain to the great gain of the next generation-single. As he is deaf to internal impulse, so, from without, nothing influences him. He would sit through an Oratorio without an aspiration, has heard Grisi and Jenny Lind sing without sending them anonymous letters, or hanging their portraits over his "Blackstone:" has seen Cerito dance without an ejaculation, and goes to the Royal Academy in as business-like a way as if he was paying a morning visit to Joseph Hume. He has no Future. His life is insured, but why, or for whom, nobody can tell. If he has money from the "expectations" his friends say he has he has none, he will buy an Annuity-to save trouble. In another grade he would have joined a Burial Society for the same reason. He is never waited for-wanted-anywhere They are sure of his coming, for "what can he have to do, poor fellow." He is sure to live to ninety, because it is not in his nature to be run over by an omnibus, or to go up in a balloon. When he ceases dies, is a strong word, he will break up the Spring Fashions of half a dozen families, but for him, on whom no smile of gratulation ever rose, from whom no tear of pity ever fell-there will be no mourner. If it be but in the spider that reproved Bruce, in the flower that soothed the poor prisoner, seek a motive in something. It may be your fate never to be loved; to yearn-without hope: yet create some tie, some incentive. There will be a reward. As surely as Harvest follows Seed-Time, the light the sun-or esteem, kindness. Do not be that sad-colored biped — that fish-catching, fisheating animal-a motiveless man. WHY WEEP YE? WHY weep ye, glorious and majestic things- That streams from the myriad eyes of the watching night? So well, that ye weep when its light hath passed away? Why weep ye, flowers-lovely and loving things, So well, that ye weep when its light hath passed away? Why weep ye, deathless sons of the mighty God- Weep on, proud trees-weep in your strength and might- |